KHR Drabbles
by zyq
Summary: Random things written on whim.
1. femXanxusTsuna

Standard disclaimers apply. Written for the KHR kink meme, and here for archive purposes. Read at your own discretion.

.-.

Tsuna groaned, and for the second time in all twenty-one years of his relatively short (or miraculously long, seeing as assassination attempts started when he was only fourteen) life, wished he wasn't _male_. His wrists hurt, goddamn it, and for the umpteenth time, futilely attempted to break free of the accursed tie that just, wouldn't, snap. _His_ necktie, as a matter of fact, one he had received a mere hours earlier amidst a chorus of "Happy Birthday!" and "Congratulations!" Haru had given it to him all the while urging him to try it on, babbling about how red was in fashion and what not. Something seemed off at the time, but unable to pinpoint the cause, Tsuna had brushed it aside, not one to refuse such a seemingly simple and innocent request.

Come to think of it, Haru seemed awfully friendly with _her_ lately, and didn't she mention about going on an all-girls shopping spree with Kyouko-chan and some others? His stomach curled, struck with belated realization.

A languid tongue lazily trailed down his chest, circling slowly before zoning in on his right nipple. Tsuna hissed, clenching his teeth as a jolt of pleasure went straight to his groin and his stomach fluttered with a completely different sensation. Damn. Here he was, firmly tied down, stripped to his boxers, and completely at the mercy of the woman who had come so close, dangerously close, to taking his and all he held dear's life.

Someone who was now removing his boxers and dear god, that's a really nice view down her shirt.

Shaking his head as he felt his already impossibly red cheeks heat up further, Tsuna dragged his mind away from all that involved hands and tongue and removing the battle-worn, half unbuttoned shirt to expose and, realized he was failing miserably in the attempt. He groaned, and furtively wished to stop the blood flowing down south. This didn't go unnoticed, and inwardly, he cursed the infamous Vongola intuition.

"Do you think it's unfair?" came a soft, seductive whisper as his boxers were unceremoniously tossed away (where was he?) and red eyes locked his gaze.

Unlike the exalted tenth generation leader, _she_ was fully dressed. Granted, her once pristine blouse now sported burn marks and missing buttons, and her leather skirt was frayed from their earlier "400 Year Old Traditional Vongola Birthday Get-a-Chance-to-Beat-Dame-Tsuna-to-the-Ground Challenge Match," as Reborn had called it. Tsuna swears it was created not three minutes prior to the announcement, and solely to satisfy the hitman's own sadistic pleasure of seeing him squirm.

Said challenge was basically one-on-one matches to test his strength, within a ring where leaving meant an automatic loss. Consecutive one-on-one matches, until either Tsuna loses or he succeeds in defeating all the challengers. Surprisingly, quite a few people wanted to go first, despite the obvious disadvantages. He thought he had been doing quite well, managing to trick even Hibari to step outside. That had earned him a bone-chilling glare that promised blood and broken bones the next time they held sparring practice though. Regardless, he was barely breathing hard when _she_, the fiery Queen of Varia, stepped up with a gun in each hand, the cause of his current misfortune.

"Do you regret it?" that soft, seductive voice asks again, successfully recapturing Tsuna's full attention. Blood-red lips curved upward as slim fingers close around his hardening shaft and jerked. A lustful moan escaped his throat, deep and needy, as Tsuna threw his head back and rainbow stars dotted his vision. "Hesitating before delivering the final blow. You're still so soft, just like that useless, crippled old man. Soft and weak." Crimson eyes narrow she sneers, cruel and cold and loving at the same time. "It's because I'm female, a woman, a _girl_, isn't that right, _Tsunayoshi_?"

Another stroke, this time harder, causing his hips to buck and leaving him panting for more contact. She was right, of course. The Vongola intuition ran deep in her, as it did in him. Since an early age, Tsuna had been taught to _never_ hit girls, regardless of the reason. The guilt and shock of seeing curves when the bandages around her chest unravel right before he zero-pointed her five years ago still lingered strong. Up to that point, he treated her as a man, because seriously, who would name their _daughter_ Xanxus? Though thinking back, perhaps he had known all along, and was merely refusing to acknowledge it for the sake of survival.

"Answer me," was all the warning Tsuna got before he felt something hot and wet descend around the head of his arousal. He was not at all prepared for the sudden jolt of pleasure, the heat that engulfed his body. An experienced tongue swirled around him, licking, teasing, moist. Tsuna's mind blanked. It wasn't as if he'd never had any experience. He had, guiltily, jerked himself off to Kyouko-chan many times in the showers, and there was that one time with tequila and Gokudera and pineapple pudding.

But this, this was _Xanxus_ of all people. And somehow, it's making him that much hotter.

Calloused hands graced across his inner thighs, sliding along sensitive skin while parting his legs further. Groaning and panting, Tsuna offered no resistance, carnal pleasure having completely taken over. Her mouth was now sliding along his shaft, gradually, sucking him in. He thrust forward, searching for a rhythm, a way for more friction, deeper. Arms twisted against their red restraint, matching the unusually bright orbs that never left Tsuna's flushed face.

And then they disappeared, her mouth also abandoning her previous post as she pushed his legs up and apart. Through half lidded eyes, he looked down, silently yearning, begging for the lost attention. He was so close, so close.

But years and years of enduring Reborn's Spartan-hell training didn't amount to empty air, and Tsuna wasn't boss of arguably the most powerful mafia family for no reason. Gathering what he could of his happily scattered mind and pushing his libido as far away as possible (which regrettably, wasn't very far, half-watching her lick her fingers like that) he panted in a breathy voice, "Xa-Xanxus, I don't-"

Before he could get any further, a finger roughly shoved its way up his ass and Tsuna screamed. Pain and shock and fear ran in shivers up his back, and he wished now, more than ever before, for a normal life that did not involve the mafia, sadistic hitmen, and certainly not an ex-enemy-now-turned-kind-of-ally molesting him in an unknown room. She was smiling, perfect white teeth flashing, licking her lips like a predator. Tsuna felt his vision blurring, recognizing the tell-tale signs as liquid pooled at the corner of his eyes.

"Pay back," she all but purred out, as another finger forced its way up. Tsuna felt his insides being torn apart. Between the pain and confusion, he no longer knew how to think, feeling her fingers move uncomfortably inside him, jerking, searching.

And then she did _something_, something that had Tsuna convulsing with spasms of ecstasy. The pain forgotten, eyes impossibly large, he could only stare while dark spots danced across his vision, before another jolt racked through him, tearing another scream from his throat, this time of pleasure.

Arching his back and gasping for breath, Tsuna squeezed his eyes shut and felt two cold streaks move down his burning cheeks. He vaguely recognized the feeling of teetering at the edge of consciousness, vaguely felt her fingers shift again. A third intruded his opening as fiercely as the previous two had, and just as another wave of pleasure washed over him, pushing him over the edge, Tsuna's world went black.

.-.

Xanxus stared at the man, the man who stole her rightful position, who lies helplessly before her, who is still full off childish dreams and ideals, and pulled her hand back. Carelessly dragged it across the sheets to wipe off splatters of his release.

"Passing out so easily like weak, worthless trash." Even though he wasn't weak, wasn't worthless, hard as it was to admit. A yawn escaped her, and she finally became aware of just how tired she was. Rushing to this party (not for him, but because the accursed Arcobaleno had threatened cut liquor funds) after three draining missions was taking its toll. The bed stood there, inviting. However, _she_ was not so weak, so weak as to fall asleep here defenseless, where many, like that chain smoking bastard, would gladly have her head.

Sliding off the bed, she frowned at the passed-out Vongola Decimo. How easily it would to erase him here and now. How cowardly, and Xanxus was certainly no coward. She reached forward, eyes lingering on half parted lips, on already drying tear tracks, before untying the custom made crimson tie and tugging over a blanket.

She must really be tired, doing something like this, something so unlike her nature. This thought was enough for rage to boil, and the far wall stood testament to her anger. Unfortunately, blasting a gaping hole through any wall sets off the silent alarm. Well, she's not staying around and paying for damages. The Varia headquarters weren't terribly far from the main house.

With large, confident strides, the Queen of Varia strode towards the door with every intention of leaving in a flourish of grace and airs, but not before turning around for one last look. "You could have won, but today, it is my victory."


	2. TYLXanxusTYLGokudera

Standard disclaimers apply. Written for the KHR kink meme, and here for archive purposes. Read at your own discretion.

.-.

It wasn't like this actually meant anything. Because in his mind, his heart, there was, is, only one man he will ever acknowledged as the _Tenth_.

"On your knees, trash."

It wasn't as if the motion of touching one's knees to cold marble had any significance whatsoever. It wasn't as if those condescending crimson eyes held any real power over him. This wasn't an act of reverence or respect, merely a reoccurring coincidence turned habit. Neither out of hate nor love, in front of this iron throne, the centerpiece of this large, pillared room. It simply was.

"Get moving. I have a meeting with the fucking shark later."

A mere twitch of dull, green eyes. Once vibrant, but no longer. Not since the day Sawada Tsunayoshi, heir to the Vongola throne, fell to his death in a blaze of red, angry flames. Gokudera still remembers, the image of the man, the boy, who embodied all his hopes and dreams and life. The slow sinking of his eyelids. The dying flicker trailing on his forehead. The graceful arch of his back before he plummeted down, down.

"Good boy."

And Gokudera was leaning forward, unbuckling the ornate, gold gilded belt, unzipping familiar, expensive leather pants. This was punishment, karma for failing as the Tenth's right hand man, _his_ Tenth. Because there was nothing so debasing as serving the enemy, lowering your head to your most hated existence. Or so he had felt, reasoned, when such actions held meaning. But no more. Calmly, Gokudera reached under silk, black boxers, drawing out the half erect member.

"Who are you thinking of right now, _Hayato_?"

Words dipped in venom, caustic and smooth as milk. The scarred bastard was smirking, cruel lips curving ever so slightly. Gokudera paused, his own lips mere millimeters away from throbbing flesh. He raised his head to stare into the face of the man who had killed, mutilated, and hoisted his meaning of life on a pike for all the world to see. "Of course you, your grace, the Tenth Don Vongole." A pause, as Gokudera refocused his attention to lap in front of him, silver lashes shading his eyes. "Xanxus-sama."

"Remember it, trash. _I_ am your master."

Xanxus adjusted his position, slightly shifting his thighs, barely sliding his hips forward. The signal to continue.

_You're not the Tenth_, Gokudera thought, before he opened his mouth, wet and moist, and set his tongue to work.


	3. TYLRebornYamamoto

Standard disclaimers apply. Written long long ago as a gift, here for archive purposes. Read at your own discretion.

.-.

It all started with a game. For Yamamoto, most things start that way, as a game. In elementary school, a catch-ball game with his dad introduced him to the world of baseball, and determined how he would spend his after-schools for the next seven years. Then, in middle school, a baseball game during gym sparked his first conversation with Tsuna, and the only reason why he isn't currently buried six feet under. Shortly after that, he joined in the mafia game that Tsuna and Gokudera loved playing, recruited by the little guy, and his life was never the same again.

And now this.

Chuckling to himself, Yamamoto tried once again to readjust the position of his tightly bound wrists. And failed. The little guy was really good at this tying-a-knot game after all. Though technically, Yamamoto wasn't quite sure what the name of this new game was, or how exactly one played.

The Varia had been on a lengthy campaign in Italy for the past few months, and their most recent video report of their final success had a very loud PS directed at him attached. Very, very loud. Lal Mirch had kicked him into the wall before stomping out of the briefing room with her hand over her ears, and the first deafening _VOIIII_ had yet to end. Admist the unmistakable shouts of Varia's rain guardian and frantic exclamations from both Tsuna and Gianini and his own wildly spinning head, Yamamoto was barely able to register Squalo's demand for a sparring match.

The Varia would be swinging by sometime next week to drop off the official report.

Thus, Yamamoto went to ask the little guy for some one-on-one training. He'd been helping Tsuna with paperwork for the past week, and though he would find time to train every day, Yamamoto wanted to make sure he wasn't getting rusty. The last time he sparred with Squalo, the other swordsman had, in a split second of hesitancy, left him with a neat little nick on his chin. It was all thanks to his quick, natural reflexes that Gokudera only had a bandage to point and laugh at, as opposed to a split jaw. Sparring match they may call it, but each and every one of Squalo's strikes were meant to kill. Yamamoto knew this, and so did Tsuna, who watched these matches with a tense poise and gloves always nearby. And when he couldn't, the brim of a fedora could always be seen, not quite blending in with the shadows of the sparring grounds.

Ah, the little guy. Who had, when Yamamoto went to ask, flashed his trademark mysterious smile and replied, "I'll train you. Let's make it a game." And then proceeded to knock the smiling swordsman out cold with the butt of his gun. Though to be fair, he wasn't so little, not anymore. Yamamoto had considered dropping the nickname, but "Reborn" was already taken by Tsuna and "Reborn-san" by Gokudera. It was a petty thing, really, but for some reason, that he alone used the name made him feel happy. After all, Hibari still addresses the little guy as "Infant" every now and then, which just goes to show that old habits die hard.

"Comfortable?" came a deep, suave voice, and Yamamoto inwardly marveled at how well the other man embodied the description of tall, dark, and mysterious.

The happy-go-lucky rain guardian beamed up at the sharply dressed figure towering over him. "Little guy! Where have you been?"

"You had a goofy grin on your face," the former infant replied, characteristically ignoring the question. "Were you thinking of something good?"

"Haha, well I was thinking about Hibari and how he-"

"Hibari." A simple statement, almost a whisper. Yet, the tone, the way the hitman's suit wrinkled slightly, and the sudden change in atmosphere made Yamamoto stop. Unspoken words dying in his throat.

For the first time since he woke up, finding himself tightly bound in one of the traditional Japanese training rooms with Shigure Kintoki no where in sight, Yamamoto felt nervous. He stared up at man who most likely brought him here and tied him up, as a funny feeling began to stir within his stomach.

"Hibari, eh?" Again, though this time in contemplative tone. The air around them relaxed comparatively, as a smirk resurfaced on Reborn's face. "Well, we can't have that, now can we?"

And suddenly, Yamamoto found himself staring into deep obsidian eyes as a hand under his chin effectively prevented him from looking anywhere else. The unfamiliar closeness, the abrupt disappearance of the gap between the two of them, and the fact that they were all alone in some unknown location with no one the wiser, probably, was more than enough for his brain to decide that this might be a good time to bail. And so the young swordsman did the only thing he could.

He laughed.

"Such carefree and innocent laughter," Reborn smiled, amused. "Shall we make a bet? If you can still laugh like that after this game, then the world's greatest hitman will grant any one request of yours."

"Really?" Yamamoto grinned back, eyes wide with new life. "Then it's a promise! How do you play this game?"

The ex-arcobaleno readjusted his grip on the younger man's chin, thumb lightly brushing over the battle scar. Making no move of restoring the distance, or lack thereof, between them, he continued. "No matter how great a swordsman you become, no matter how honed your fighting skills become, there may always come a time when you become disarmed." His voice became softer, more deadly. "Unable to move."

Here, Reborn's hand abandoned its former post, trailing gently down jaw line and collarbone, sending shivers down Yamamoto's spine. Moving ever so slowly, it finally came to rest upon a bandage covered chest, as the suit-clad hitman pressed against the heart. A whisper.

"Like now."

Yamamoto was pushed back against the wall behind him, as the man before him exerted a firm and constant force against his chest. He didn't know where this was going, and though his senses were all screaming for him to run far far away, he couldn't bring a single muscle to budge. It was strange, as if the hand upon his heart was radiating flames. The air around them felt much too hot, his face felt flushed, and his heart was thumping, pounding so loudly that Yamamoto could only anticipate the moment the little guy would point this out.

Instead, he heard, "The rules are simple. It's your win if you can free yourself before...well."

"Well?" the confused swordsman blinked. The hand pressing against him pulled back slightly, resting where cloth met skin. "...Little guy?"

Long fingers began to move, sliding across the hem of his bandages. In one elegant movement, the smirking hitman swept his signature hat from his head and placed it gently upon Yamamoto's head.

"Wah!" was the intelligent response as the rim slid over widened hazel eyes. Legs scrabbling, arms rendered useless, Yamamoto's panic level rose with rapid speed as slender digits and cool air danced across his chest. The game had started, and he knew he had to free himself, somehow, soon. He tried to readjust his body to gain a better foothold, only to have a weight fall upon his hips.

A tingly sensation rippled through Yamamoto's body, and he froze. He felt warm breath against his neck and the cool tip of a thin nose as a breathy murmur reached his ears.

"Use your imagination."

Really, this was against the rules. Taking back a gasp, Yamamoto silently swore that it should be illegal for anyone to have such a deep, seductive voice. He could only imagine the number of hearts the owner of this voice had both captured and broken. The little guy, well, even when he was still a little guy, was quite the lady killer. Haru and Kyouko adored him, as did Tsuna's mother, and wasn't he dating Gokudera's really pretty sister? Wait, so why was he straddlin-

A sharp pain on the side of his neck abruptly broke Yamamoto's current train of thought.

"You should really try harder," came an amused chuckle. "You're making this much too easy for me."

Ah, yes, the game. This was a game after all, and the little guy's games always had a unique touch to them. And this simple epiphany was all that it took to clear the jumbled mess that Yamamoto's mind had been reduced to. Focusing on the present situation, he recomposed himself. "Hahaha, but little guy, is this part of the game too? Why are you taking off my hakama now instead of earli-AHH!"

The bandages were gone with a snap. Unfamiliar sensations racked through the tied-up swordsman and realization hit him hard, as hands roamed and something firm yet soft brushed against his collarbone. It all finally clicked together. Yamamoto's eyes widened, still hidden behind the other's fedora. This, this was the little guy after all. The little guy sending shivers throughout his body. The little guy plopped in his lap. (Something deep within his mind argued, _He's not little anymore; he never was_.)

But these new strange sensations didn't feel bad. Yamamoto was presently feeling really good, actually. The thinking part of his brain, bailing for real this time, marked all resistance down on the Do-Not-Do-List, and high-tailed away. His seducer's fingers were now tracing lazy nothings over his bare skin, gradually moving lower, fluttering over the muscles of his bare stomach. Throwing back his head, the successor of the Shigure Souen Style decided right then and there that this was one game he truly didn't mind losing.

The hat over his eyes lifted, and once again, deep obsidian eyes greeted him. "You're not resisting," Reborn smirked almost triumphantly. Yamamoto returned the remark with one of his infamous smiles.

A hand was back under his chin as those midnight orbs came closer and closer. This time, it was a slow process, slow enough for Yamamoto to admire the older man's unblemished skin, how a few strands of that perfectly gelled back hair were falling out of place, the way those long lashes slowly sunk over deep-set eyes, filled with unspoken emotion. Gradually, with a touch of hesitancy, he let his own lids slide down, leaning forward as-

The sliding doors of the room slammed with a sharp thud. "REBORN! Gianini told me you were down here! Have you seen Yama-"

Eyes snapping open, Yamamoto willed his head to move, turning awkwardly in the direction of the new voice. Tsuna, hair in disarray from recent running, impossibly large eyes larger than ever before, mouth agape, stood in the doorway.

"-moto?"

An annoyed growl sounded above him, and Yamamoto wondered if he'd ever seen the little guy with such a dark expression.

"Dame-Tsuna, haven't I told you to knock before barging into a room?"

The esteemed Vongola Decimo, a legendary boss already with countless victories under his belt, both feared and loved by many, let out what could only be a muffled squeak of terror. Eyes frantically darting between his former tutor and half undressed rain guardian, he coherently stuttered out, "I-I'm sorry for...for...! B-but I...Yamamoto...S-"

The rest of that sentence went unheard, as the adjacent wall exploded in a torrent of wood, smoke, and one very loud war cry.

.-.

Being a spy, especially when your target was the powerful Vongola Famiglia, was not for the weak of heart. Ricchie knew this, as he swiftly crawled along the corridor with the desperate determination of a man hell bent on getting his ass outside to safety. Sure, when his boss first asked him to do this job, he was brimming with confidence on gathering all the dirt he could on this illustrious mafia family.

Now, he wasn't even confident in seeing daylight again.

The Vongola were all a bunch of freaks. Freaks! The boss was some Japanese kid, not even Italian, who was known for sparing his enemies like bees were known for producing honey. He and his so-called guardians were even kicked out of the main manor in Italy once, for daily destruction of the premises. Oh, Ricchie would know. He had been caught in too many of the explosions in that episode.

And once, he was in the john, just doing his business as was needed. Down falls that silver-haired chain smoker, right in his stall to boot, and blows the place up. He was knocked out for over a day. Seriously. The Vongola will self-destruct, no outside interference needed.

Still. Ricchie had a mission, bidded his time, slowly climbing the servant ranks from bathroom scrubber to attendant of the all-powerful head of Varia. Granted, he'd heard many a horror tales concerning this post. And it didn't actually take that long for him to get promoted, less than a month actually. But still. He was _the_ Ricchie, spy extraordinaire, and this was The Inner Circle. Come on, it was the Special Assassin Squad that the Vongola took so much pride in, and here he was, the leader of this top-secret group's personal attendant.

Life was good. Except, not.

If he had thought the Vongola were freaks before, he had yet to meet the eccentric members that made up _this_ deadly squad. That scarred bastard of a boss was the worst of the lot. Food? Pickier than a goddamn _princess_. Wine? At least four glasses and two bottles to the head daily. Women? PFTT. Ricchie swore the whole lot batted for the other team, especially that green haired necrophiliac. Whom he avoided like the plague. Then there's that inhumanly loud swordsman with the hair fetish, that creepy eyeless blonde with the blood fetish, that floating midget with the money fetish, and that umbrella guy with the Boss fetish. He shuddered, pushing all memories of horrible, horrible violations of servant rights to the back of his head. If there was anything Ricchie learned during his time in hell, it was that strength was inversely proportional to common sense, at least in this mafia.

If he didn't know any better, he'd think they were torturing him on purpose, and laughing behind his back while they do it. But that obviously couldn't have been true. His spying skills were superb after all.

Now, finally, the Varia's campaign of blood has ended in Italy. They've come to Japan, visiting the head honcho of this circus of freaks. Now, finally, was his golden chance to escape.

Except he was lost. But that was okay, because Ricchie was still _the_ Ricchie, scarred and broken for life or otherwise. And, he patted his pocket, his heart medicine was there, all safe and sound. Good. So he diligently crawled along the dark, Japanese-style corridor, chanting a mantra for fresh sunlight in hopes that some god or buddha or whatever they worshiped in this pasta-less country would grant his wish.

Right on cue, the walls ahead of him exploded. Dust and debris descended upon Ricchie as he cowered for dear life. One especially large chunk of steel-enforced oak landed with a _clang_ dangerously close to his head. In this state of frozen terror, a familiar yell associated with great pain reached his ears. Life was officially out to get him, and Ricchie could only listen as the beginnings of another disaster unfolded before his hand-covered eyes.

"VOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!!!! KATANA BRAT!! IS THIS WHERE YOU'VE BEEN HIDING??!?! HEEEY!"

"Squalo! Aren't you suppose to be in Italy?"

"Ah, Squalo-san! Please don't destroy anything here this-!"

"Herbivore. Is this your doing? Destruction of my base, I will bite you to death."

"AHH! Hibari-san?! It wasn't me, I swear!"

"VOIII!!! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING UNDER ANOTHER MAN, OIIII?!"

"How dare you attack the Tenth, Hibari! Take this! ROCKET BOMBS!"

"Gokudera-kun? Why are you here?! AHH, THE OTHER WALL!!"

"EXTREME FIGHTS ARE EXTREME!!! I won't lose to you, Octopus-head! MAXIMUM CANON!"

"Yamamoto Takeshi. What do you think your doing with _my_ Reborn?"

"AHH!!! THE WALLS!! Onii-san, stop!!!"

"Haha, is everyone here to join the game?"

"Lawn-head, out of the way! Baseball idiot, how dare you taint the Tenth's holy presence with your indecency?! DIE!"

"AHH! Bianchi, Gokudera-kun, wait! Reborn! DO SOMETHING!"

"VOIII!!! ARE LOOKING DOWN ON ME BRAT?! GET UP AND FIGHT!!"

"Dame-Tsuna, as boss, do something about your subordinates yourself."

"Kufufu~"

"Sawada-dono? The floors upstairs are shaking, is everything alright?"

"Midori~ Tanabiku~ Namimori no~~~"

"EH?!? Basil? MUKURO?! Why are you here too?!?!?!"

"Rokudo Mukuro, I'll bite you to death."

"Ushishishi~ So this is why Squalo wanted to come back early. The Prince will join this bloodbath."

"AHH~~~ Poor Squalo-chan, all heartbroken now. Though that is one gorgeous body~"

"This isn't a bloodbath! And please, everyone stop!! We're UNDERGROUND!"

"BWAHAHA! Lambo-san's finally here! Reborn, today you die!"

"Hahahahaha~ Little guy, did you plan for all this too?"

"Says the one who ran screaming like a sissy from a butterfly."

"WE SHOULD ALL START AN EXTREME BOXING CLUB TOGETHER!!"

"Fucking imposter trash. Disgracing the Vongola name like this, I'll kill you."

"Don't run from me, Yamamoto Takeshi! POISON COOKING!"

"Bastard! How dare you show your face in front of the Tenth! GO DIE!"

"Kyou-san, if this continues, the roof will collapse."

"An all out brawl? Oi, Reborn! Why didn't you tell me of this, kora!"

"REBORN! Don't egg Lambo on!! And X-Xanxus, wait! I- HIIIIIIIIIIE!!!"

"Tsuna? I heard a lot of screaming? Is everythi- WOAH OOMF!"

"Dino-nii? Tsuna-nii? What's going on?"

"VOIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII!!! FIGHT ME SERIOUSLY KATANA BRAT!!!!"

"What a fun game for everyone to play~ Ah, hello little turtle!"

"AHHHHHH!!!!! WHY DOES LIFE HATE ME SO!?!? OW, Dino-san wha- WAIT, LAMBO THA-!!!"

And here ends the adventures of the great spy extraordinaire, with these last words he heard in the great fortress of Vongola. They say you see a white light when you go; Ricchie saw green.

.-.

Irie Shouichi sighed and shook his head, headache already forming as the screen next to him flashed on with an ecstatic cry of "Shou-chan~!" Groaning, he turned away from his window, which provided a clear view of the ominous black smoke billowing from the direction of Namimori Junior High. It seems that the god of destructive explosions and unfortunate calamities had decided to grace the Vongola headquarters of Japan with its almighty presence. Again.

.-.

Reborn strode down familiar hallways, heels silent upon rich carpet, temples throbbing. Clean-up was not pretty, and being one of few without battle wounds meant a lot of unwanted duties. He sigh, irritated. It took way too long to finally lose a persistent Bianchi, trailed by an equally persistent, if not more so, Shamal. Who was, by the way, shirking his medical duties as usual.

Dame-Tsuna stupidly went and had his writing arm fractured, and was now chained to his bed on orders by yours truly, guarded by a groveling and sobbing Gokudera with an energetic as always Ryouhei. (Reborn turned a deaf ear to Tsuna's agonizing pleas for a quiet, single room.) Hibari had disappeared, but not before leaving the entire restoration bill on Tsuna's newly tonfa-broken desk. One fluffy yellow bird stayed to witness the Vongola Don's scream of distress upon seeing his office laid waste, and chirped a happy "Bite you dead!" before flying away.

Dino was currently reduced to errand boy for the Varia, broken leg or no, also on orders by yours truly. Really, you'd think that after all the training he's put his two pathetic students through, they'd be less pathetic and more boss-like, without having the fate of the entire family or world at stake. In his mind, he was already devising a new training regime to thoroughly torture and punis-, _retrain_ his two useless no-longer-former pupils. (And no, the world's strongest hitman did not feel even a twinge of guilt upon seeing the blonde boss limp around trying to fulfill impossible demands, flinching each time Lussuria told him to turn around and bend over.)

It was truly a miracle that no one died in that last fiasco, with the roof collapsing and all. Though not so much collapsing as completely obliterated, along with a large chunk of the base. The final blow, courtesy of the resident thunder guardian's water grenades and one giant green amphibian, while successfully ending all fights, came at a hefty price. Refurnishing will take at least two months.

That Reborn didn't beat the aforementioned pet and its clumsy owner into the ground with the nearest piece of broken pipe was solely due to Leon's intervention. The annoying, crying cow however, was a different story. He made a mental note about telling the servants to throw any future packages for the stupid cow from the Bovino Don labeled "toys" straight into the incinerator. As much as Reborn appreciated the unorthodox way mafia-folk went about raising children, that _thing_ was, in the end, a stupid cow. Even if he thought the Bovino Don's taste in "toys," which changed biyearly, was a bit on the bizarre side. Actually, the Bovino Don's taste in general was a bit on the bizarre side.

Sighing for the eighteenth time that day (yes he was keeping count), Reborn kicked the door of his suite open, with every intention on taking a much needed cold shower followed by a long, peaceful nap.

"Yo, little guy!"

The hitman froze, hand instinctively searching for his shape-shifting partner. One Yamamoto Takeshi, smiles and all with a bandage on his left cheek, sat on the edge of his king sized bed, legs dangling playfully against silk sheets. Topless.

"Wow, your room's even bigger than Tsuna's! And I had to vault on this bed, it's so high up!" exclaimed the grinning swordsman.

A smile slowly spread across the ex-arcobaleno's features. Change of plans. Reborn casually leaned back to close the door, calmly turning the lock, and strode forward to greet his surprise visitor. He stopped in front of the younger man, one hand reaching to caress the white bandage. "You let your guard down."

"Oh, this? Haha, I should ask Gokudera's sister to play ball sometime. She really has the arm of a pitcher!" was the carefree reply, followed by a slightly embarrassed chuckle. Then a pause, as round eyes stared up, expectant, bright. Too bright. "So, is it the same?"

One graceful eyebrow rose ever so slightly.

"We had a promise, remember? That if I could still laugh like before when the game ended, you'd grant a request of mine." Was that a sly smile on his face? "And the game ended."

Resting back on his heels, one of the mafia's seven strongest carefully considered that cheerful smile. Perhaps he had underestimated the potential before him, though when it came to measuring others, he was one of the best. "Who said the game was over?" Reborn asked, lowering his head to meet the other at eye level.

"Eh? Didn't the get-caught-hostage-then-get-rescued game end already?"

A slight frown. "That wasn't-"

"But it ended, right?" The tone was nothing but cheerful, and if Reborn didn't know where to look, he would have been fooled. The boy was indeed much more than he let on.

Even so, this was a rare side to the young, natural-born hitman of his personal scouting. The seasoned mafioso contemplated the much too wide grin and unnatural glint in the guardian's dancing eyes. Not bad, but two can play at this game.

"Alright," he began, drawing out the word. "It's your win." Cupping the other's face and leaning in until their noses almost touched, Reborn noted with satisfaction the sudden presence of pink stained cheeks and white fisted knuckles. Indeed, this game was made for two. Summoning the voice reserved for only his most intimate lovers, he breathed, soft, teasing.

"The world's number one hitman is at your service, Yamamoto Takeshi."

.-.

Omake: (I've been itching to write one)

R: Gothic lolita maid, sexy school nurse, or magical sailor girl? What are these, Fuuta's rankings? -__-

80: Yep! And Haru was nice enough to introduce us to her friend's shop too~ ='DDDD

R: ... -___-;;

T: ^___^

R: So, which would you rather see me in, Take-chi? o=)

80: ...All three? |D_


End file.
